


Not Unwilling, Just Unable

by triedunture



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blindfolds, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce doesn't know how to be intimate without waking up the Other Guy. Tony has some ideas. Some of which are stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Unwilling, Just Unable

"This isn't going to work," Bruce says while Tony's mouth traces along his clavicle in a way that, Tony feels, is pretty damn well-executed. 

Tony pauses in his endlessly cautious exploration of Bruce's skin and looks down at Bruce, who is pressed into the high-thread count sheets and space-age foam pillows with a look of defeat already crumpled across his face. 

"Which part?" Tony asks.

Bruce swallows. Tony watches his throat bob. "All of it?" 

"You don't sound certain." Tony's body drops another inch, brushing against Bruce from chest to ankle but not covering, not blanketing, and still fully clothed, minus shoes and socks, and holy shit, if you had any idea how long it took to get Bruce _here_ , you'd be more sympathetic to the wheedling note in his voice which some people (Pepper) might classify as 'whining.' 

Bruce's eyes are dark, both in color and intent. He scrubs a hand—wide, solid, steady on any number of expensive lab implements, unsteady on Tony's hipbone—across his face. "Sorry. Just. This isn't." He's out of words.

Tony sighs through his nose. "All right." His voice is light as air. "Sleepover?" 

Bruce nods, curling out from under Tony and slipping under the sheets and blankets, not bothering to take off his slacks or shirt, both borrowed from Tony's own closets. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I thought maybe this time—"

"Hey, no need to explain. Like I said, at your own pace." Tony flops beside his (teammate? partner? scientific equal? bunkmate?) _Bruce_ , keeping a respectful three inches between them. Even on a bed this huge, three inches is forever. 

Bruce turns his head on the pillow, watching Tony across the distance. He's got questions there in his gaze; he's asked them before. Why him? Why Bruce Banner? And how many of these sexless nights in Tony's too-large bed will it take before Tony gives up on the challenge? 

Tony has never dignified these questions with any answers. He brushes them off because what else can he do? Say _it's not a challenge, not anymore_? Because the logical follow-up would be _What is it, then?_

And Tony really doesn't have a response for that. 

He has Jarvis put Boris Karloff's Frankenstein on the big screen, low volume. Bruce snorts, his eyes flicking to the movie, black and white images cast over his face like ghostly shadows. 

"Trying to tell me something, Stark?" he mumbles. He's already drifting off, Tony can hear it in his voice. 

"Who, me?" Tony curls a hand through Bruce's hair, combing his fingers through it for long minutes until Bruce's breath evens out in sleep.

_____________________

"I have this idea," Tony says a few days later.

They're alone in Tony's penthouse. Not unusual, late night takeout dinners, cartons of Indian curries or Szechuan noodles scattered on the floor while they review virtual wireframes and ponder the exploded view. This is how it first started, Bruce in Tony's bed but not _in_ his bed. A quick kiss, all fiery heat from peppers or spices, Bruce stammering, Tony cataloging every movement as he shied away but didn't run. Not unwilling, just unable. That's how Bruce had put it.

"The Other Guy gets touchy," he'd said. "I know what sets him off. Not just anger or pain or surprise. There's also panic. Nervousness." 

"So don't be nervous," Tony had said, swooping in for another nip at those ridiculous lips, but Bruce had pulled away. 

Easier said than done. Which is what gives Tony this idea.

"You're in control twenty-four seven, right?" 

Bruce nods, a shuffling assent. He scratches at the bend of his right elbow. 

"What would you say if you didn't have to be?" Tony asks. 

"I'd say," Bruce says slowly, "I'd like to see the alternate universe where that is possible?"

And that's how they end up back in Tony's bed, shoes and socks off but everything else still on. There's the addition of a black silk blindfold across Bruce's eyes and some of the same silk binding his wrists together. They're trussed above his head, the silk threaded through the rectangular cutout at the top of Tony's headboard. Even with his eyes covered, Bruce looks skeptical. His eyebrows are telling the whole story. 

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," Bruce says. 

"It's an excellent idea," Tony counters, checking the knots. "You need to learn to relax. Let someone else handle things for a change. This way, it's out of your hands. You can just lie back and enjoy. Like a massage."

"The Other Guy probably wouldn't like a massage either." Bruce's mouth is pulled into a sad bracket which is just asking to be kissed, so Tony does.

"You want out?" Tony asks, serious. He knows on some level Bruce is curious to know if this will work; he wouldn't have agreed to it if he wasn't. But if there's second thoughts in that big thoughtful head, Tony will pluck the knots out of the silk ropes right now, and Bruce knows it.

"Uh." Bruce squirms into the mattress. "Tell me again why you have these ropes on hand?" A deflection, as good as any go-ahead. 

"They're perfect for my ribbon dancing routine. Now, you ready? You good?" 

He gives Tony a tight nod, and Tony begins. Slow, as slow as a Stark can go, palms skimming up Bruce's flanks and finding their way under the shirt that Tony picked out for him. A kiss to a bared hip, a button or two loosed. A nipple rolled between two fingertips. Bruce's skin tastes clean and smells faintly of saffron. 

"Tony." Bruce's groan is low in his throat, a lovely sound. Tony smiles against his neck. 

"I've got you," he whispers. He likes saying that, even if he's not sure what it means. _You caught me once; let me save you, too_ , maybe. 

"T-tony!" Bruce gasps when Tony licks his ear, and okay, that's a very good spot, a very good noise, a very good feeling as Bruce writhes underneath him, no longer shy and unassuming but hot and sweaty and, goddamn, saying Tony's name like that is also very good. 

Tony licks the shell of his ear again. 

"N-no, don't, please, oh god, no," Bruce says, and before Tony can ask if no really means no in this instance, Bruce is gone. 

Three seconds flat. A mighty roar shakes the room. Tony falls on the floor, not because the Hulk has pushed him there, but because the bed has shattered under the Hulk's massive weight. Tony blinks up at the Other Guy, sitting huge and naked and green and very, very confused in a pile of cracked melamine and torn sheets. 

"Hey, Tiny," Tony sighs. 

The Hulk sniffs the air like a gorilla might, bending low over Tony to rumble, " **No fight?** "

"No, no fight. Sorry. Looks like you came all this way for nothing." Tony picks himself off the floor, dusting off his jeans, cracking his sore back. 

Big green eyes look down at him. The Hulk tries again. " **No...danger?** "

Tony lifts an eyebrow. He's only seen the Other Guy come out to play twice, and this is the only time he's seen him calm. Almost disappointed. 

"No danger except that of embarrassment," he says. The Hulk frowns, not understanding. Tony tries a different tack. His erection's gone anyway. "Want to watch cartoons?"

The Hulk seems to enjoy Chester and Spike immensely. He reclines on the pile of destroyed bedframe, a sheet spread over his lap, while Tony sprawls out on the floor by his huge feet. At one point during the intro credits, the Hulk peers down at Tony and confides, " **Small self talks. Don't always listen.** " 

"Yeah?" Tony perks up. "What does he tell you?"

The Hulk's locomotive breaths rush out through his nose. " **Come out. Don't come out.** " He shrugs a massive shoulder as if to say, _How am I supposed to keep it all straight?_

Tony cracks a smile, tipping his head back to gaze up at the Hulk. "I hear you, Andre." 

They watch Looney Toons late into the night, when the Hulk's snores are shaking his bones in a way that reminds him of wearing the Mark II. Tony lets his eyes slide shut, leaning against a green tree-trunk of a leg.

He wakes up next to a very naked Bruce Banner. 

Tony tries to appreciate the view, but Bruce is making it difficult, what with all the folding himself into a bedsheet burrito and choking at the sight of the bed, or what's left of it.

"Did I do this? Did I—Jesus—did I hurt you?" Bruce grabs him by the shoulders, stronger and harder than any softie scientist should be able to, and stares into Tony's eyes. "Answer me!"

Tony's still blinking the sleep-sand out of his eyes. "What? No. I mean, yes, you broke the bed. Or, the Other Guy did. No, I'm not hurt."

"What happened? What did he do?" Bruce looks around the room, but there are no other signs of damage.

Tony shrugs. "Laughed at Tweetie Bird, mostly."

Bruce stares, mouth open. Tony tries to kiss it, but Bruce backs away. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, no rampage, no uncontrollable anger. He just watched TV with me. Talked a little. As much as he does, anyway."

"What?" Bruce shakes his head. Looks a little bit too much like his counterpart when he does. "He spoke to you?"

Tony shrugs. Thinks maybe the conversation, such as it was, is something he should keep to himself. "Come on, I'm starving," he says instead, and he guides Bruce's toga-draped form into the kitchen to rustle up an omelette.

_____________________

"I have another idea," Tony says as soon as his new bed is delivered. (Same model, new reinforced struts. Maybe it won't hold a Hulk, but Tony's not one to stop trying.)

"No," Bruce says around the pen that's dangling from his mouth. He doesn't look up from the calculations he's scrolling through on his new StarkTablet. 

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"Still. No."

"Okay, I admit the last experiment went a little awry." Tony doesn't pause at Bruce's ludicrously raised eyebrows. "But we have some good data to go on now, and I think this time, by Jove, we've got it."

Bruce glances up, intrigued despite himself, Tony can tell. This is a branch of science Tony is very good at: salesmanship. Can't start a project without the right backing, and right now he needs Bruce at his back. On his back. Whichever. 

"So here's what I'm thinking," Tony starts, and he explains his whole plan, dancing carefully around details that make Bruce's face scrunch uncomfortably. But he's thorough, covers all the bases, and when he's done, Bruce purses his lips and says, "No."

"Come on!"

"It's dangerous. And crazy. Did I mention dangerous? Dangerously crazy."

"How is it any more dangerous than sleeping next to you at night, completely unprotected?" Tony crowds into his space, just a little, trapping Bruce with an arm on either side of his swivel chair. "You could have a nightmare. Crush me in my sleep. But you never have, not yet. Acceptable risk, like driving a car or getting on an airplane or—"

"Jesus, Tony, I wouldn't fall asleep with you if I didn't think I could control the Other Guy in my dreams!" Bruce looks horrified at the idea, maybe disappointed that Tony even considered it a possibility. 

"Yeah, exactly. You can control him then; you can keep him under when you jerk it, right?" 

"What?" Bruce's face is back to creased confusion with a light hint of disgust.

"I assume you've touched yourself at least a few times in the last two years. And considering there hasn't been a huge swath of destruction to clean up in your room yet, I have to conclude you can experience pleasure without—what, am I right? I'm right, aren't I?" 

Bruce is shaking his head, a rueful shrug to his shoulders. "Yeah. I mean, yes. I guess so."

"So what's different when it's you and me? Besides my delicious presence." 

"I don't know. When I'm alone I just— My mind is blank. But with you, I'm," Bruce swallows, "always thinking."

"So stop thinking." Tony arches an eyebrow. Holds up a length of silk that flows from his trouser pocket like a magician's trick. "Just do, young Skywalker." 

And that's how they end up back here, in Tony's new bed, same as before but switched around: Tony on his back, eyes covered in black silk, wrists tied up above his head. To the people who would say it's not in Tony Stark's nature to be bound and bottoming, Tony would reply: Screw nature, this is Bruce Banner we're talking about. It's surprisingly comfortable, laying back and listening to Bruce breathe, feeling his hands on his skin. 

Tony's shirt is gone, but he can't see the glow of the arc reactor through the blindfold. He feels Bruce's touch skitter around it, then over it, fingertips light on the casing. Tony can feel the touch deep in the cavity of his chest, where the mechanisms that keep him alive shift inside his ribcage. 

"Does it hurt?" Bruce asks. His voice is prayer. 

"Nah." Tony licks his lips, wishing he could see what Bruce's face was doing. "Just tickles." Bruce's hand disappears at that, so Tony amends, "Go ahead. Scope it out." 

He's let Bruce examine the reactor plans before, but there's never been time for this, for an intimate and up-close study of his new heart. There's a tremble in Bruce's touch as he traces the edge of the reactor's metal shell, gentle where it meets the skin. Tony tilts his head, listening to Bruce breathe deep and low. 

"You like?" Tony teases, and if there's a real note of self-consciousness in his voice about the ugly veins that splay out from the center of the arc reactor or the alien whir that thrums from it, he figures Bruce will excuse him.

Bruce doesn't say anything in response, but Tony feels him dip his head over Tony's chest, soft hair brushing over his nipple, a low smacking sound: lips against hard silicon. Tony stills, breath held in his throat. Bruce kisses the arc reactor again, then murmurs against the over-heated skin of Tony's flank, "Amazing."

A surge of gratitude for the blindfold. Tony blinks against the enforced darkness and sucks in air again. "Thanks. I made it myself." Just a whisper. 

Bruce's hands are more sure now, working on the belt of Tony's trousers. His breathing is heavier, more ragged. Tony can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against his thigh for a moment, then Bruce is over and above him, yanking the clothes off them both. The clink of a belt buckle, the hiss of a zipper: Tony listens to it all, beautiful music. He grins into the dark.

He nobly refrains from reminding Bruce this excellent idea—that Tony should be the one blindfolded, that Bruce should have the control and the trust—was really very excellent. 

"Tony." Bruce's voice is low and right in his ear. He's stretched out along Tony's side, one long unbroken charge of skin to skin, the soft brush of body hair, Bruce's hands sliding across his stomach, his thighs. 

Tony turns his head to where he thinks Bruce is and kisses what feels like his chin. "Go to town, professor," he says.

Bruce kisses him, short and distracted, before he's gone again. Tony groans at the loss of heat, but he feels Bruce's hands on his upturned knees and settles in for the remainder. He wonders how he looks to Bruce, if he looks ridiculous or not, spread out naked in a blue glow. Bruce's breathing picks up again as his palms travel up and down Tony's thighs. Up and down, up and down. His breathing turns deep. 

Very deep.

Tony picks up his head, training his ears on the sound. Bruce is panting, a light whistle betraying clenched teeth. His body is a bellows between Tony's spread legs. Puffing up, down, up. 

"Doing okay?" Tony asks, careful not to betray any real fear.

The hands on his knees—Bruce's hands—are getting larger. The fingers nearly meet behind his knees. Tony holds his breath. Bruce stays where he is. Is his skin tinged with green? Are his eyes? Tony can't see, he doesn't know for sure.

"Bruce? Talk to me." Tony tugs at the knots at his wrists. He could slip them if he had to, maybe. Shit, maybe this was a dangerously crazy idea. 

Bruce doesn't speak, just lets out a half-growl that turns into a whimper at the end. Not a human noise, but not a Hulk noise either. His right hand darts to Tony's ankle, and before Tony can register what's happening, his leg is lifted high in the air and he's splayed open, vulnerable, and fuck if he isn't still hard. 

Bruce licks at him: touches him with his broad, flat, wet tongue and laps him up in one long stroke, over his hole, over the root of his cock, over his balls, up his shaft to the very tip. Then again, and once more, Tony's leg trembling in the air but unable to move in his iron grip. Tony gives a yelp, and Bruce answers with a low, animal grunt.

"Christ Almighty," Tony breathes. "Bruce—"

The too-large hand lowers his ankle, almost gently setting him back on the mattress, his lower back twitching against the sheets. Bruce rests his forehead on the point of Tony's still-crooked knee and stays there for a long time, breathing heavily. His hands feel smaller and the air feels less thick after awhile. 

"You still with me?" Tony tries once more after the silence has stretched long enough.

Bruce nods, his hair tickling Tony's leg. "Oh god," he chokes. "Oh my god."

"Tell me about it," Tony mutters. Saliva is drying on his inner thighs, cool and sticky. 

"He was almost out—the Other Guy—he was surfacing, I was so—my heart was pounding and I thought I was going to die and he started to come out and I told him," Bruce whispers, disbelief in his voice, "I told him no, no, stay back. And he _listened_. He was taking over but then he stopped. He's never—oh god—he's never done that before."

Tony twists against the silk ropes again, if only because Bruce is shaking like a leaf between his legs and a hug, at the very least, seems in order. Bruce must agree, because he reaches over Tony's torso and pulls the ropes loose, and then Tony has a lapful of miracles. Bruce kisses him, deeper now, desperate and relieved and—does Tony detect it? Yes—proud. 

"I told him to leave," Bruce says against Tony's hair, "and he did."

"Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Tony says. He's still blinking underneath the blindfold; he's in no hurry to take it off. Bruce smells good, feels good. Probably looks good, too, bathed in the light of the arc reactor and the ambient lights of the city outside the window, but Tony is content with just a few senses for now. He licks a line down Bruce's throat.

"I think this works," Bruce's voice rumbles against his lips.

"Of course it does. It was my idea," Tony says. He finds Bruce's hands braced against the mattress and brings them to his hips instead. Much improved.

He thinks about what it might look like inside Bruce's head, stuffed full of rage and greenery. How Bruce might sound, shouting down the Hulk, fighting something that huge and that terrifying because—no two ways around it—Tony is _his_ , not the Other Guy's. That feels good. That feels just about right, actually.

"This deserves a blow job at the very least," Tony declares. He doesn't specify for whom, and Bruce doesn't ask. Bruce lays him down, all hands free to roam now, and they kiss. 

And for the first time, it's just the two of them.


End file.
